The girl's face crumples with a mixture of relief and despair, her fingers still clutching your sleeve as if you're the only solid thing in a world gone sideways. She nods, a jerky motion, and presses the silver pendant into your palm—it hums with a faint warmth against your skin, the runes pulsing like a heartbeat. "Take it," she whispers, her voice cracking. "It's a ward against their magic. It won't stop a blade, but it'll buy you a breath." The rain has begun to slacken, though the sky remains a bruised gray, and the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer rings from somewhere in the town.

She introduces herself as Elara, her brother's name is Finn, and the coven is led by a man they call the Pale Hand—a sorcerer with a hunger for the old bloodlines. She knows the watchtower's layout: a spiral stair, three floors, and a dungeon below where the captives are kept. But the mage you faced was just a servant; the real power waits within. She looks at you with feverish hope, the bruise on her jaw darkening, and asks what you intend to do to prepare.